Gas
by ADS77
Summary: It is a world where logic is law and rules set are never meant to be defied. That opposites attract and similar repel. HGFD


There is this tiny, teensy, feeling of Déjà vu. And she pauses. Its funny how the word used to describe her feelings now have to be French. She stifles and tries not to laugh.

"Hello Fleur."

How she feels now. What she wants to transmit. She doesn't know how to put it. She may have been the smartest witch in the century, but there were still things she didn't know, feelings she never felt, and hearts that were intact. That had always been pounding, in one lovely piece. Never broken. Or that's what she likes to think. To fool herself into believing. This lovely, wonderful no, _perfect_ bubble she lives in.

It's the ideal world.

Where little boys and little girls grow up to marry one and other.

It is a world where logic is law and rules set are never meant to be defied. That opposites attract and similar repel.

And she decides fervently, for absolutely no reason at all, at the very age of fourteen, that she'll find some way around it. Somehow.

Because just like everything else, there has to be an anomaly. A loophole.

There were words that were never meant to be spoken. Pictures drawn for no one to see. Spells invented for no one to use. And there were feelings that should not never ever be revealed.

Whatever for? Why do things that aren't productive? Why invest in something with no return?

Why _bother_, with unrequited love? Why involve herself with you- a certain blonde girl that caused at least half the population at Hogwarts to turn their heads? She thinks distastefully.

She could not see the logic behind it. Hermione Jane Granger was born a rational thinker after all.

It wasn't like risk taking. That itself was a gamble.

This was something else.

"How are you? Are you fine? "

So very polite of them. Forced chit-chat. She wonders why they even bother to converse with each other.

No, she's not. _Why state the obvious?_

She's heard all the rumors about you. Every. Single. One. At least 20 variations each. And it wasn't as if she bothered to keep track about your latest endeavors, my recent preys. She claims she doesn't give a damn about how, where, who- you hooked up with. No really. She doesn't care.

You don't believe her? She doesn't either. But she's too proud to show it.

You remember seeing her read some piece of paper, or a small scrap of magazine cutting. Scrutinizing the black ink for any information, for reasons that do not need to be said. And you see her show a disgusted expression, followed by a smack on the hand.

The world is so big. So vast. She, of all people, would certainly know that.

"Was it Fate that brought us together, once again? "Cliché. How very. And the brunette curses under her breath.

"That out of this world's population of 6,876,600,000, we both met? You'll have to thank Harry for that. "

You know you have to thank someone else too. Someone who, so very kindly, leaked the information about the brunette's weekly activities to you.

And pop. The bubble bursts.

It seeps in. Slowly. Diffusing through. It doesn't matter what barrier she puts up. How much she tries to ignore her very existence,_ it'._ It always enters. Just like how your language slips into her daily life.

Oxygen rushes in.

Hermione saw her got married. Watched with her very own eyes. "Congratulations," she spits. "I wish you all the best. " A handshake that lasted more than required. And the best would be for you to break up soon, she thinks bitterly. But that was then. And now is now. And now Bill was dead.

She inhales them all, greedily.

Nothing seemed to work. Blue, the color of her robes, the color of her eyes. Every color. Everything. She could always find some link to the other girl. Somehow.

Then she coughs. _Phlegm._

You pretend not to notice how odd that cough sounded and you offer her a handkerchief.

This is really getting out of hand, she chides herself. Her mind. Her thoughts.

But it's not just oxygen. For air comprised of other gases. And pressure, or was it temperature?

This was bad. Very bad. She did not want any of this. She constantly reminds herself as she had years ago. There was no need for someone that flicks her _allsoverysilky_ hair three times in a minute. What she needs is a red-headed boy. No need for a whiny, complaining bitch like her. A famous Quidditch player would do just fine.

Why aim for something you can never reach? Like asymptotes on a graph. Nearly there, somewhere there, teasing, but never touching. Very, most certainly, redundant.

But that hand was outreached. Right in front of her.

There were factors that could change the composition of the gas.

Luck. Encounters. Chance.

For the first time ever, she grabbed it.

The world in which they live in is not a nice one.

And was far, far from being ideal.

* * *

I wrote this on a whim. Experimented around and this was the end product. I hope it didn't turn out too confusing. I was inspired by "the ideal gas equation" when I was revising Chemistry. Constructive feedback is gladly appreciated. As usual, I do not own any of the HP characters.


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